


roots & branches

by thychesters



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Implied/Referenced Character Death, ghost Jess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-13
Updated: 2014-08-13
Packaged: 2018-02-12 23:48:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2129013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thychesters/pseuds/thychesters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You call him your graveyard boy. That is not his name and the words sound so sad, but you find them fitting and are not sure where they came from in the first place. He means so very much to you, and you wish you could remember why.</p>
            </blockquote>





	roots & branches

You call him your graveyard boy. That is not his name and the words sound so sad, but you find them fitting and are not sure where they came from in the first place.

He visits you often, your graveyard boy, and sometimes you watch him as you sit among tree branches with flowers not quite in bloom, his knees pressed to the dirt. You imagine sprouts curling up and around his fingers, little leaves free of the earth, as if the color would ease his dismay.

He smiles sometimes, your graveyard boy, but it makes you sad when he does. Often you wonder how it would look if it were real, if it stretched across his features. You have very faint memories of how his eyes shine when he’s happy, or an indent in his cheek when he laughs. These are very faint and disjointed, a distance you can’t cross, a crackle between radio stations you cannot place; phantom sensations of fingers and hands and a mouth, and you clasp your hands together and imagine that one is not your own.

He brings you a bouquet, your graveyard boy, flowers bound in ribbon and tissue paper. There is a warm sensation in your belly, and you find that you miss him. That’s a funny thought, you decide, because you cannot miss someone who visits you all the time. The color fades from the flowers, the petals dry and wilted, and you find yourself sad and you press your toes against them before the wind carries them away. Perhaps they will return to your graveyard boy, you think, that would be very nice.

Your graveyard boy murmurs, sometimes, in words that you cannot understand but in tones that make you smile or sigh. He is very important to you, but you cannot say why. You wish he would come more often, but he always looks so very tired, and you wish he did not hurt so much.

He is very sad, your graveyard boy, but not always. There are times, sadder times, the ones you believe to be in the beginning, where there had been another with your graveyard boy, but he had stopped coming after your graveyard boy had pushed him away. You had been closer then, hands clasped and toes curled into grass, and you had wished to reach out to your graveyard boy for reasons you can no longer recall, but you know that the tears on his lashes had made you so very sad.

There are other times, in the before, before the flowers and your graveyard boy, where there are faint traces of whispered words, brushes against skin by fingers that are not your own, a taste of sleep and ash and good mornings and good nights. A name, a name for your graveyard boy, and a name for yourself, but you have no true memory of those and thinking of them only makes you sad. You do not think on them so much.

Your graveyard boy, you think, he is your graveyard boy, and you are his. You close your eyes, and you smile.

He stops coming to visit after a while, your graveyard boy, and you are not sure how long it has been since he first started coming to see you. At first you are sad, because you are rather fond of your graveyard boy, so you sit and wait for a little while longer and hope for his return. The grass is cool, and there are dried petals scattered around your toes as you stand where you have been meeting your graveyard boy for so, so long.

He does not appear, your graveyard boy, so you must search for him, you decide. You will find him, your graveyard boy, for you do not wish for him to be sad, and you miss him so for reasons that are lost but not lost to you.

It takes a long time, but you find him, your graveyard boy. He is scared, so afraid and alone, and you cannot allow that to happen. You smile and think it’s been such a long while, and his eyes are not so sad when he sees you. You wonder if perhaps it is the first time he has seen you since the before, now that you believe this to be the after. It is a nice thought.

His hands are warm, your graveyard boy’s, and you smile at the sensation that you lost in the beginning, fragments piecing together, and you are sad but not sad. He breathes, and you smile still as you watch a dimple appear. You are no longer sad, and you hope he is not either. You press dried petals into his palms, curling his fingers around them, and he whispers words and names that you have not thought of in so long.

Hello my graveyard boy, you think, hello Sam, you say.


End file.
